


Last Words of a Shooting Star

by fairietailed



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Shapeshifting, all canon compliant injury tags, mercenary Foxes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-06-24 15:05:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19726090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairietailed/pseuds/fairietailed
Summary: “We are not trophies to be won,” Mary said, and she looked down at her son, eyes blazing. “Remember that, Abram. We are not trophies. We are gifts. Ones that the humans around us do not always deserve.”--Andrew is a mercenary doing his best to keep his family safe.Neil is a constellation full of secrets that is making his job very difficult.





	1. Chapter 1

> spir·it  
>  /ˈspirit/  
>  _noun_
> 
> the nonphysical part of a person that is the seat of emotions and character; the soul.
> 
>   * a supernatural being.
> 


\--

Year X17

It was daybreak when they left.

It was easier that way, his mother had said, as his father wouldn’t be able to tell that they were gone until the moon rose high over the mountains.

When he had asked why they were leaving, his mother had grown quiet. He didn’t push the subject, having learned his mother’s temper due to his annoyance a long time ago. She didn’t answer him until they were halfway down their mountain, the trees growing denser, the shade from their canopies keeping the sun off of their backs.

Finally, she spoke.

“We are not trophies to be won,” she said, and she looked down at her son, eyes blazing. “Remember that, Abram. We are not trophies. We are gifts. Ones that the humans around us do not always deserve.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant, exactly, but he nodded all the same.

They continued on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> Some of these chapters are very short. It'll pick up and get longer the further into the story we get, so I promise you they won't all be less than 100 words long.
> 
> For this reason, I'll be posting 2 chapters with every update! I should be updating once a week.
> 
> This was originally supposed to be my piece for the AFTG Reverse Bang that happened over the summer. Due to my fiance's death in February, however, I dropped out of the event and haven't finished. 
> 
> I had been working on this already, so I have a fair amount done, but it's been sitting here staring at me for so long that I've lost motivation. I'm hoping that getting it out there will kick me into gear, because now I have a clock ticking. I can promise you, though, that this will get done! I've been chipping away at this and thinking about it constantly.
> 
> I decided to post it now because it fits pretty well with the first prompt for andreil week; fantasy. So I figured why not?
> 
> My artist was cats-are-assholes on tumblr, and I want to thank Val for being so understanding and sticking with me even though I didn't get to participate in the event.
> 
> Please be patient with me, and I hope you enjoy this as much as I do.
> 
> Thank you for reading


	2. Chapter 2

> sur·viv·al  
>  /sərˈvīvəl/  
>  _noun_
> 
>   
>  the state or fact of continuing to live or exist, typically in spite of an accident, ordeal, or difficult circumstances.

\--

Year X23

The sound of Tilda’s hand meeting Aaron’s face rang out across the small living room like a gunshot. Andrew was up in a second, making it across the room in three strides to stand over his brother’s crumpled body, arms outstretched in a protective stance that threatened broken bones if ignored.

Their mother seemed to tower over him, though she was only a grand 3 inches taller than he was. She glowered down at Andrew who stood, unflinching, beneath her.

“Move,” she said, and Andrew could see Aaron shrink back out of the corner of his eye.

“No.”

Tilda’s lip twitched in annoyance. “He stole from me,” she said. “Do you expect me to let him go?”

“He took a piece of bread from the cupboard,” Andrew bit back. “Do you expect him to starve?”

Andrew held his mother’s gaze for a long moment, the silence around them hanging heavy in the air. Finally, she turned, clicking her tongue in irritation and making her way toward the back of the kitchen, opening the back door and pulling out a cigarette.

Aaron pushed himself off of the floor slowly, reaching out and tugging on the bottom of Andrew’s shirt. Andrew reached out a hand, gripping his brother by the forearm and hauling him up to stand beside him. The red mark on Aaron’s cheek almost seemed to glow, a near perfect imprint of Tilda’s hand outlined on his skin. Andrew reached out, touching it lightly. Aaron winced.

“Please,” he said. Andrew felt a low roll of anger and nausea in his stomach. Aaron’s voice was low, eyes darting to look at Tilda in the doorway. “I’m okay. I’m okay, Andrew, I shouldn’t have done it.”

Tilda scoffed over her shoulder, ashing her cigarette with a flick of her fingers.

“See, Andrew?” She asked, tossing a look over her shoulder. “Why can’t you be more like your brother?”

Andrew took a step forward.

“If you raise your hand with the intent to harm him again,” he said, his voice low, “I will kill you without hesitation.”

Tilda let out a huff off laughter, stepping off of the door’s stoop and into the back yard, kicking the door closed behind her without another word.

-+-

The tile of the roof was cold against Andrew’s back, the thin layer of snow that had fallen earlier that evening seeping through his clothing and settling into his bones. It felt nice, he thought, to lay here, slightly numb, a cigarette in between his lips and the stars spread out above him. It was nice to get away for a bit.

Aaron was asleep below him, the imprint-turned-bruise on his cheek still fresh on Andrew’s mind. He had been thinking about it all day, along with the black eye that Aaron was nursing, and the bruises on his ribs and arms and legs.

He thought of his own body, not a single one of his own wounds inflicted by any hands other than his own.

He took another drag of his cigarette.

It would need to be quick, and quiet. It would need to look like an accident. It would require all of his experience, all of the knowledge he had learned while he was gone, all of the talents that Cass had taught him in their travels.

It would be soon.

He had planned long enough.

Above him, the stars shifted.


	3. Chapter 3

> ex·tin·guish
> 
> /ikˈstiNGɡwiSH/
> 
> verb
> 
> cause (a fire or light) to cease to burn or shine.
> 
>   * put an end to; annihilate
> 


\--

Year X27

The fog of the early morning made it harder to see. He could feel his mother’s presence beside him, though, small but assured, and he could smell her just as well as he could hear the soft sound of leaves and twigs rustling on the forest floor as she moved.

It was hard being smaller sometimes, he thought, but he was also much faster, and that made his mother happy. It was easier for him to scavenge for food, easier to slip into the shadows when humans got too close, easier to run in case his father’s men were on their tails.

But being like this for so long wore him out. It made him tired, using up his energy like this. It made him feel trapped. It made his muscles sore and his bones ache and his head hurt as his mind continued to yell at him that this was not right, this was not him, this was not what he was supposed to be for this long.

He was fading away.

But the hardest part, he soon found, was suppressing his glow, hiding the silver-blue tint that his form would sometimes take up if he wasn’t careful. He and his mother had tried everything but he would still shine, a faint ring of stardust an inch above his skin, shining the way it was created to, the same way it had since the day he was born.

“It’s troublesome,” his mother would say, and he would smother his hurt the way they attempted to smother his glow.

The fog of the early morning made it harder to see, but it did not stop his hearing. A twig snapped to their left.

He paused before spinning quickly, baring his teeth and stepping in front of his mother. 

“Now, Nathaniel,” a voice called out, carrying easily, even over heavy footfalls and rustling leaves. “Is that any way to greet me?”


	4. Chapter 4

> ne·ces·si·ty
> 
> /nəˈsesədē/
> 
> noun
> 
> the fact of being required or indispensable.
> 
>   * an indispensable thing.
> 


\--

Year X27

The sounds of the market always made Andrew dizzy.

There was too much going on at once. Too many people, too many voices -- he couldn’t watch himself as much as he’d like with this many people this close to him.

But it was easier for him to get what they needed when there were more people around, so he would endure.

That didn’t mean that he took his time, though, weaving his way through the crowds of the marketplace, bumping into some people and swerving to avoid others. Coin purses found their way into his pockets, produce found its way into his now half-full bag that he had brought along with him. He slipped some coin to certain salesmen, protecting himself against those who may try and contradict the alibi that Aaron and Nicky were providing for him halfway up the block.

Halfway through the day, he slipped by a woman with cropped white hair, and she smiled at him as he slipped her coin purse into his coat pocket. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. There was a cold sort of kindness to them; it was a protection that he was familiar with. “That was my mistake. I wasn’t watching where I was walking.”

“Don't worry about it,” Andrew said, moving deeper into the crowd around him.

By early evening he was finished, his pockets heavy and his produce plenty, the crowds from the marketplace emptying out into the deeper parts of town, closer to the taverns and the inns and the pleasure districts. The day was disappearing, and it was time for the nightlife to begin to stir.

Andrew slipped down an alleyway on the far side of the market, making his way through the darkness toward where Aaron and Nicky would be waiting for him.

He hadn’t even made it halfway through the alley before he was ambushed.

Someone dropped from above, landing close enough beside him to set him slightly off balance. He dropped his bag of produce, nearly falling backward before a hand shot out to grab his forearm, hauling him back to stand up straight. He swung, instincts kicking in, and was deflected easily before a counter-attack was made. It was too dark to see the angle of the blow. He tried to defend, throwing his fists in front of his face, but the jab went low, landing a punch to his stomach.

He let out a wheeze, anger coursing through him, and threw out two rapid-fire punches that both hit, causing his attacker to let out a soft grunt. He thought he heard laughter, and he had no time to react before three more blows landed, one to his face and two to his chest. Andrew staggered backward, spitting blood and wiping at the edge of his mouth, scowling.

“That wasn’t bad,” a voice chirped from the darkness. He realized, hearing it, that it was a woman. “You’re fast, and would be better with training.”

“I would be better if I could see,” Andrew fired back.

The woman laughed again. “I assumed you would be, which is why I waited until you could not.”

“So you are a coward,” Andrew said. The woman hummed.

“No,” she said, after a thought. “Just a strategist.”

Andrew scoffed. “So what do you want, then?” He took a step back, his shoulders hitting the wall behind him, using the cold stone to support his weight.

The woman stepped out of the darkness of the alley, walking past Andrew to stand in the opening of the street. He realized with a start that this woman was the same one from earlier that day -- the one with the cropped white hair, the tips dyed multiple pastel colors, contrasting greatly with her dark clothing. There was a small cross attached to a chain around her neck, and there was a small smile playing at her lips.

“I would like to offer you a home.”


	5. Chapter 5

> death  
>  /deTH/  
>  noun  
>   
> 
> 
> the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism.
> 
>   * the state of being dead.
> 


_ \-- _

_ Run. _

He could hear his mother’s voice in his ears.

_ Faster. _

It was louder than the wind, louder than the blood that pumped through his veins, louder than the twigs snapping beneath his paws; the same kind of hollow sound his mother’s neck had made as it snapped beneath his father’s boot.

_ Faster, Abram. _

He was making too much noise. They would hear him. They would find him. He needed to run faster, he needed to find safety, he needed to disappear.

_ Run. _

And so he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm still here!
> 
> I just got back from a vacation overseas so I've been focused on getting back into acting like a normal human being. Whew.


	6. Chapter 6

> pay·ment
> 
> /ˈpāmənt/
> 
> _noun_
> 
> the action or process of paying someone or something, or of being paid.
> 
>   * an amount paid or payable.
> 


\--

Year X29

The moon hung low in the sky, the clouds stark against the soft glow that washed over Andrew from his spot on the roof. He let one of his legs dangle over the edge, leaning back on the palms of his hands as his head tipped backward, counting down the seconds that ticked by silently.

Five minutes.

He pulled his leg up over the side of the roof, sliding down the shingles as quietly as possible, landing on the second story balcony before stretching his arms above his head and pulling his knives from their sheaths.

The lock to the balcony was a simple pick -- for someone with so much money, Mister Tomas Morton didn’t seem particularly worried about security. Which was perfectly fine by Andrew, of course. It made his job that much easier.

Three minutes.

He could hear voices downstairs as he crawled through the window. The lights were on, buzzing with electricity that Andrew could practically hear from the bedroom. He never understood how people were able to tolerate the hum of lightbulbs or the harsh light that they emitted. He supposed that it was about showing off their wealth; he could count on one hand the number of people in the country that had working electric bulbs in their homes.

Andrew got comfortable in a large, cushy armchair beside the window, letting the tip of his knife settle into the arm cushion, spinning it in slow circles as he waited. With his other hand he pulled out his cigarette case, picking one out and sticking it between his lips. He flipped the case closed and stuffed it back into his pocket and pulled out his lighter next, igniting a small flame and taking a few drags of his cigarette in order to get it lit.

One minute.

The voices downstairs grew quiet, their muffled “goodnights” traveling through the floorboards as the lights flickered off one by one. The soft hum still remained, the fading buzz of electricity cooling off in the darkness that washed over them. Andrew could hear the creak of the wood on the stairs as someone made their way up, their voice rising a bit as they called out to the person downstairs, instructing them to lock the doors before they leave for the night.

 _It’s too late_ , Andrew thought. _You’ve already let the monster in._

The door to the bedroom opened.

“Time is up.”

Andrew’s voice broke through the heavy silence that hung in the room, and the man in the doorway nearly jumped out of his skin.

Andrew took a drag of his cigarette, flicking the ash onto the floor beside the armchair. The man turned quickly as if to call out down the stairs to whatever maid was leaving the house for the night. Andrew clicked his tongue.

“I would not do that, Tomas,” he said. “It would be a shame for her to die for nothing.”

Tomas’s mouth snapped shut.

“Good.” Andrew leaned back in the chair, pulling the knife from the stuffing and pointing it toward Tomas. “This is a new shirt, and I would prefer it not get ruined tonight.” He waved the knife in the direction of the armchair beside him. “Come inside, will you?”

Tomas stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Andrew lit a lantern on the side table as Tomas moved across the room slowly, sinking into the open seat beside him.

“These are comfortable,” Andrew said. “Imported?”

Tomas nodded, eyeing the hole in the armchair that Andrew had dug out with his knife.

“Antiques,” he said, hesitantly. “Almost 100 years old.”

“You have a nice home, Tom,” Andrew mused. “A lot of nice things. I was admiring your electric bulbs a bit earlier, as well. They must have cost you quite a bit.”

“Ah,” Tomas said, wincing slightly. “Yes.”

Andrew took another drag of his cigarette.

“You know I am not here to talk about your antique chairs,” he said, “regardless of how comfortable they are.”

Tomas shifted slightly in his seat, nervous. Andrew continued.

“You owe someone some money, Tom. As of-” he made a show of looking at the clock behind the man in front of him. “-two and a half minutes ago. I am here to collect.”

Tomas looked slightly disgruntled, which Andrew thought was brave for a man staring down the tail end of a knife. “I could have taken it to him in the morning,” he said. “There was no need to break into my home and ruin my furniture.”

Andrew let his head fall to the side, bored. “He would have been perfectly fine with waiting,” he said, “if you had brought the money _on_ _time_ the last time you spoke.” He could feel a smile curling at his lips. “Besides, what would be the fun in waiting?”

Tomas’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Tomas, do not expect me to believe that. You asked for an extension, and that is what you were given. You agreed to pay him on the 15th.” He looked at the clock again. “And it looks like it is now the 15th."

Tomas grew quiet, sitting back a bit farther in his chair. Andrew waited.

“How much is it again?”

“14 thousand,” he said, “after interest.”

Tomas stood abruptly, making his way to the closet and throwing open the door. Inside was a small safe, tucked in the back corner beneath a pile of blankets. He spun a combination out quickly, pulling the door open and sitting back on his heels. From his place in the armchair, Andrew could see stacks of cash inside the safe, surrounded by formal documents with official seals. Tomas took what he needed and closed the safe door.

“Here’s 15,” he said, tossing two stacks of bills at Andrew, who caught them mid-air. “Tell him that I won’t be needing his help anymore.”

“I really do not care,” Andrew said, standing and stuffing the bills into a pouch on his hip. “I am only here to collect.” He made his way to the bedroom door, tossing it open and making his way down the hall toward the stairs. Halfway down, he turned and looked back at Tomas. “Although,” he said, leaning against the banister, “I do show up when they need the dirty work done.”

Andrew started back down the stairs, giving a two-finger salute over his shoulder as he left.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter @fairietailed to yell about Fox boys in love
> 
> (you can also find my coffee which, if you do, I'll write for ya)


End file.
